Be Honest with Yourself

A story about Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev, the eighteen century Hasidic master.

Rabbi Levi Yitchak was once walking down the street on his way to Yom Kippur services. On this day we are commanded to fast and seek repentance. He happened upon an acquaintance who was enjoying a hearty morning breakfast.

“My son,” the rabbi said softly, “Have you forgotten that today is the Yom Kippur fast?” The man shook his head, smiled, and said, “No. I have not forgotten at all.” Levi Yitzchak hesitated for a moment and responded, “I see. And I assume then that you have a weak heart or must be worried your fasting will be harmful to your health.”

The acquaintance quickly assured the rabbi that this was far from the case and said, “I am in excellent health. My heart is strong.” Hearing this response, Levi Yitzchak didn’t shout or rebuke his friend or even storm away in anger. He did not even show disappointment.

Instead, the rabbi beamed with joy and shouted toward heaven. “Master of the universe! Look how righteous are your people! This Jew here, even though he is not fasting, is so good at heart that he refuses to lie about it.”

Rabbi Levi Yitzhak saw the good instead of the bad. Rather than focusing on the negative, he saw the positive. Let us likewise see the positive in others.

And let us likewise take an honest accounting of our own souls. The Yom Kippur fast is a means to an end. It points us in the direction of bettering ourselves and improving our relationships.

This begins with an honest accounting of our own lives.

Rebalancing Our Lives

What follows is my Rosh Hashanah morning sermon.

Let me begin with two personal stories.

This August Susie and I celebrated our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. And I share this not so that you can offer us mazel tovs and congratulations—although, thank you very much—but instead as an illustration. We celebrated not with gifts—despite last year’s sermon, but with the loving embrace of family and of course with the requisite Facebook and Instagram posts. Given that I am married to Susie—and of course tagged her in these photos—my posts received hundreds and hundreds of likes and comments. For a very brief moment, I felt like the center of the universe and as if the world revolved around us.

I am thinking of Simcha Bunim, the Hasidic legend, who said, “Carry in one pocket the saying, ‘For my sake was the world created.’”

Story number two. In June, a friend invited me to sail from Bermuda to New York after he raced his boat to the island in the biannual Marion-Bermuda race. I admit. I provided far more conversational know-how than sailing expertise to Robert and his fellow sailors. I also admit I had little notion of what I had signed up for. Until a few weeks before I never even looked at a map to discover that Bermuda sits all by itself way out there in the Atlantic over 700 miles from home. As we left Bermuda the experienced sailors went over the safety procedures: how to wear the safety harness, how to clip yourself to the deck, how to inflate the life raft (make sure it is tied to the boat before pulling the inflation cord) and other such details. After a few minutes of this talk, I said, “Worst case scenario the Coast Guard will come and rescue us.” And they responded, “Those Coast Guard helicopters can only go 150 miles from the coast—hence the name Coast Guard. We are on our own out here. It is just us and this big ocean. If we have to abandon ship,” they said, “we are on that raft until another boat responds to our distress call, changes course and picks us up.”

As the sun set, Bermuda faded in the distance. In the course of five days, there were moments of sheer terror when in the middle of the night twelve-foot waves crashed over the boat, rain pelted us from every direction and lightning struck all around us. And there were other moments of pure delight when the boat seemed to sail almost effortlessly. I thought then of ancient voyagers for whom this was the only mode of travel. I imagined my hero Yehudah Halevi’s journey from his native Spain to the land of Israel in 1140. He writes: “The sea is the color of the sky—they are two seas bound together. And between these two, my heart is a third sea, as the new waves of my praise surge on high.” (The Poet Imagines His Voyage) As my heart, as well as my stomach, surged, I gained a newfound appreciation for our ancestors who endured untold difficulties to reach the promised land or for my grandparents who suffered in steerage to reach our country’s shores.

And finally, there were moments of absolute wonderment and awe. We were alone and at one with the sea. We saw two other boats, and they were cargo ships, until sighting Montauk. Even though the ocean is ferocious it is also so vast and oh, so extraordinarily beautiful. It was just ocean and sky. The waves give voice to more poems. Pablo Neruda, the 1971 Nobel Prize winner, writes: “I need the sea because it teaches me./ I don’t know if I learn music or awareness,/ if it’s a single wave or its vast existence,/ or only its harsh voice or its shining suggestion of fishes and ships./ The fact is that until I fall asleep,/ in some magnetic way I move in/ the university of the waves.” (The Sea)

Simcha Bunim again. He says, “Carry in the other pocket the saying, ‘I am only dust and ashes.’” And it is this pocket about which I want to dwell this morning for that is the feelings I discovered on that sailboat.

My question is how do we inculcate such feelings of wonderment and awe without going to sea? How do we instill in our hearts an appreciation of the vastness and grandeur of this world? How do we train our souls to feel that our earth is beautiful and precious, fragile and majestic? How do we create these feelings of awe? In terms of the balancing act between the two pockets of which Simcha Bunim speaks I think we are doing a really, really good job of creating this feeling that the world was created for me and not such a good job of teaching I am only dust and ashes. You don’t have to be married to Susie to garner hundreds of likes. Anyone can do it. Just ask my students. You should not have to go on a sailing adventure, and throw up over the rail, to figure out that the world is awesomely vast, and I am so very, very small. (That’s not a height joke.)

So here are the lessons I learned from the university of the waves. I offer three simple suggestions for how to rebalance our lives and rediscover I am only dust and ashes. #1. Go explore the natural world. Get out there. Find your path to nature. It’s simple. Join us on our synagogue’s seasonal hikes at Sagamore Hill. These are not challenging hikes, but they are nearby and there’s plenty there to take in. There is the beautiful Long Island Sound. It is different every season. No matter how many times I walk that sandy trail to the water’s edge it is never the same. It could be high tide or low. The water can reach the bottom of the wooden bridge or not. Teddy Roosevelt loved the natural world and left us this gift right here in our own backyard.

Go and visit any one of our country’s extraordinary national parks. They are an unbelievable treasure, and they are indescribably awesome. This summer I ventured to Utah and went to Zion and Arches national parks. At Zion it is as if God painted different hues of red, orange, yellow and gold on the canyons’ walls and at Arches chiseled perfect stone canopies under which to find shade. I was flabbergasted by these parks’ beauty and grandeur. Take your children there. Nature offers a new discovery every single day if we but open our eyes to it. Or if we open our ears to it. Open your windows. Listen to the sounds of insects after the sun just sets, how the night comes alive with noise. Take in the chirping of birds as the sun begins to rise and a new day begins.

Too often we view nature as something to be conquered or tamed. Think about the language we use. If you love to mountain bike, then it is high praise to say, shredding the trail. If you are skier, then it is positive to say that you are tearing up the slope. Even our language does violence to the earth. Don’t get me wrong. I love my sports. I love your sports. (And apologies to the many golfers among us, but those poor little birdies you keep hitting.) I think such sports are great, especially those that bring us out into our world. But let’s pause and think about how we interact with the world. Too often our words are about how we control nature and how we successfully use it for our enjoyment and our accomplishments. We say things such as, “You crushed it. I killed it.” That’s not how we should be thinking about the earth.

Back to the university. The thing about sailing is that the wind often determines the path. We cannot always carve it the way we want. I exclaim with the Psalmist: “Let the heavens rejoice and the earth exult; let the sea and all within it thunder, the fields and everything in them exult; then shall all the trees of the forest shout for joy.” (Psalm 96) The earth shouts for joy each and every day if we but listen, if we but stop and look. Go, explore the natural world. It is teeming with life. It is overflowing with joy. It is waiting to be discovered. Slow down. Listen. Look. Tear up less. Take in more. Find your path to nature.

Suggestion #2. Reclaim Shabbat as a moment to be at one with nature. Too often we think that Shabbat is only what we do here in the synagogue. It is the prayers that we sing. It is about the services. Or it is about the foods that we eat. Love that hallah. And especially love that wine. Shabbat is more importantly about our connection with nature. According to the Torah it is the day that God rested from making everything. Listen to the Bible’s words. “The heaven and the earth were finished, and all their array. On the seventh day God finished the work that had been undertaken: God ceased on the seventh day from doing any of the work.” Vayakhulu hashamayim v’haaretz. (Genesis 2) There is a sense that God not only rested on that first Shabbat but looked back at the work of the prior six days. Shabbat is an opportunity to take in God’s artistry—not ours. We are to breathe in the majesty of this day. We are to be at one with nature. We need to reclaim Shabbat for Reform Jews. Let us not think of it as a litany of forbidden don’ts but instead as an affirmation of nature.

Speaking of those don’ts the best part of the tradition’s prohibition against driving is the insistence on walking. I know it is impractical and I am not planning on walking from Huntington to our synagogue, but there is something about walking as opposed to driving. When we walk, we become better aware of our surroundings. The drive is about getting from point A to point B in the quickest and most efficient way. It is about not getting stuck in traffic or delayed at a light. The drive is harried and rushed. There is so much to do, so many tasks to squeeze into a Saturday. I have to get to the market, get this child to soccer practice and then another to the bat mitzvah party. There’s no time.

The walk is slow and refreshing. Even on my runs I am plagued by monitoring my pace and bettering my effort from my previous attempts. The walk is the antidote to this plague. Think about this. That Hannah Senesh song that our cantor sings so beautifully, “Eli Eli—my God, my God, I pray that these things never end. The sand and the sea. The rush of the waters. The crash of the heavens. The prayer of humanity.” is not really called “Eli, Eli,” but instead “Halichah L’Kasariya—A Walk to Caesarea.” It is not about so much about God but instead about discovering God in nature and in particular on the beach when going for a walk heading to a destination. It is about the unintended discovery of God when setting out for somewhere else. The intention of her walk appears to be to get somewhere. And then the serendipity of a poem appears. And there Senesh found not just God but the intimate “my God—Eli.”

Carve out a moment on Shabbat. It is impossible to imagine that we can do this every day in our busy lives. But at least one day a week, go for a walk—with family or by yourself. Leave the phone at home or if you must because you view it as a necessary safety device, turn it on airplane mode.

And this brings me to suggestion #3. Not so long-ago airplane mode actually meant a respite from emails, text messages and the incessant notifications on our phones but now there is Wi-Fi at 30,000 feet and it’s free on many flights. And this was perhaps the greatest lesson from my sailing adventure and the university I attended for those five days. In the middle of the ocean there is no cell service. It is kind of like that spot on Northern Boulevard at the bottom of the hill in Laurel Hollow except much bigger and lasting not minutes but days. Guess what. The synagogue managed without my constant communication. My family survived without my daily “I love you’s.” and I without theirs. My friends organized bike rides without me.

And more importantly, I survived and managed without knowing up to date news alerts about Israel or Ukraine, the White House or Mar-a Lago. I survived without seeing Shira’s or Ari’s latest Instagram posts or without knowing which East African country Ari was in at that moment. I managed—and my home managed—without being able to check the many Wi-Fi enabled devices I have installed. Of course, we had a satellite phone for emergencies, but thankfully there was no such need. The funny thing is that when you are hundreds of miles out of cellphone range, a lot less seems like an emergency. Our phones make everything appear like an emergency. A friend looks up from her phone and exclaims, “Did you know that Bonnie is on a cruise?” I look up from my phone in the middle of dinner and shout, “Oh my God, they’re forecasting heavy rains for tomorrow.”

On the sailboat, it was only the big, blue ocean and us. It was only the wind and the waves, the sun or the clouds, the moon or the stars and six small human beings on a boat that appeared ever smaller as the days progressed. Technology is pushing us away from nature just when the world desperately needs us to get more acquainted with it. There are many answers to this summer’s climate shocks and what we might do to lessen climate change, but they all begin in the same place. Become more attuned to the natural world. And that starts in the simplest of places, disconnecting from our phones and unplugging from technology. Very little of what we think is an emergency is really an emergency.

People believe the internet expands our horizons but in actuality it shrinks our circle down to the self. I have seen my students sit around a table in silence as they all stare into their screens. They are present but not really. One day this past year my students were hanging out before class started and taking pictures of themselves and I thought they were taking so many pictures. And so, I asked, “Is there ever a day when you don’t take a picture of yourself.” The look I received in response told it all. They thought it was the strangest question they have ever heard. In unison, and while still swiping through their pictures to see which was the most flattering of themselves, they responded, “No.” This struck me as a revelation. I was dumfounded. They take hundreds of pictures of themselves every day! I remain bewildered.

Again, we are doing a really good job at “For my sake was the world created” and a poor job, if any job at all, of teaching “I am only dust and ashes. Thus suggestion #3. Disconnect from technology even if only for an hour-long walk. Let me be honest. I am preaching to myself just as much as to others. This is a plea to own soul as well as to others. I am attached to my phone. It lives by my side. It connects me to a son who lives in a far-off country, to parents who live in a distant city, a brother who lives a plane ride away and every one of you. And yet it also interferes with becoming attuned with the natural world. It is a distraction when we should become more immersed with the outdoors. Mary Oliver, the incomparable poet of the natural world, who died only a few years ago, teaches that attention is the beginning of devotion. She writes: “Teach the children. We don’t matter so much but the children do… Give them the fields and the woods and the possibility of the world salvaged from the lords of profit. Stand them in the stream, head them upstream, rejoice as they learn to love this green space they live in, its sticks and leaves and then the silent, beautiful blossoms. Attention is the beginning of devotion.” (Upstream)

We think we can master our lives. We devote ourselves to establishing routines. We organize our days around detailed schedules. We believe nature can be controlled or perhaps harnessed or that technology will rescue us from the damage we are inflicting on our planet. Instead, we need to take a step back and start at square one. We need to become attuned to the natural world. I should not have had to go to sea to figure this all out. I should not have to travel to the West’s national parks to discover this. Beauty and grandeur are right here in our backyards. Attention is the beginning of devotion.

I don’t have it all figured out, but I can say that this summer has been clarifying. I did not set sail expecting these discoveries. I did not hike the trails of Zion and Arches National Parks expecting to gain an even greater appreciation of my own backyard garden. This summer blessed me with these adventures. I sailed. I walked. I have changed. We need to let go of technology a little more. We need to reclaim Shabbat if but momentarily. We need explore the natural world and become attentive to its rhythms. I am but a tiny speck in our vast and embattled world.

Rabbi Simcha Bunim teaches: Every person should have two pockets. In one pocket should be a piece of paper saying: "For my sake was the world created.” When one is feeling disheartened and lowly, reach into this pocket and take out this paper and read it. In the other pocket should be a piece of paper saying: "I am only dust and ashes." When one is feeling too proud, reach into this pocket and take out this paper and read it. (Martin Buber, Tales of the Hasidim Later Masters)

For years I thought this teaching was about achieving the proper balance between it’s all about me and it’s all about the world. These days I am thinking we are out of whack, and we need to rebalance ourselves. While I am all for self-confidence and building up self-esteem, we have to expand our horizon of concern to the very trees that give us life and the ocean that nurtures us. The answer is to get out there and experience this world. Let us instill in our hearts a love for the natural world.

Say less “For my sake was the world created” and more often “I am only dust and ashes.” Our soul depends on it. Our world depends on it.

New Beginnings

Jimmy Buffett once said, “I’m not the best singer.  I’m not the best guitarist.  But I’m the best Jimmy Buffett.”

On the High Holidays we reflect on the memories of those we mourn.  We not only dwell on the lessons they offered us but on working to become the best versions of ourselves.  We improve our lives by refining our character.   How can we do better?   

We begin by approaching others. We offer apologies to those we have wronged.  We grant forgiveness to those who have slighted us.

No one is completely righteous.  And no one is wholly evil.  Most of us spend are days hovering around the middle ground, struggling to accumulate more good deeds than bad. 

We say, “I am in such a rush!  I am not letting another car in front of me.”  Other times, we wave another driver on to the busy road.  There are times when we embrace family we have not seen in years.  And then moments when we get angry with loved ones.   There are times when we are short tempered.  And then others when we offer a kind word to a stranger. 

Our days are filled with countless ordinary acts.  Some are generous.  Others, we realize upon reflection, are short sighted and ill advised.  To be human is a gift and a struggle.  We exist in companionship with others.  Sometimes we are kind.  Other times we cannot summon the strength that kindness seems to demand.

Rosh Hashanah is the corrective to this demand.  It does not wipe the slate clean, but it does offer an opportunity to reflect and ask, “How can I do better?  Where have I failed?  How might I realize my God-given potential?  How might I bring an extra measure of happiness and joy, kindness and generosity to this world of ours?” 

Rosh Hashanah offers an opportunity to change. 

Everyone can do better.

These High Holidays celebrate the potential for new beginnings.

Jimmy Buffett again.   “Don't try to explain it, just bow your head/ Breathe in, breathe out, move on.”

Hidden Goodness

There is a legend about thirty-six righteous individuals who are so extraordinarily good and noble that the world is sustained by their deeds and by their deeds alone. They are called the Lamed Vavniks (the Hebrew letters lamed and vav add up to thirty-six). Crucial to this legend is the fact that their identities must always remain obscured. If but one of their names is revealed, another must take his (or her) place. Otherwise, the world might teeter and even collapse.

It is fascinating to contemplate that our well-being is placed in the hands of a few righteous individuals. Even more significant is the fact that their identities must remain concealed. Why is it so important that the Lamed Vavniks’ names remain hidden? Why is it so crucial that no one can know who they are?

It is because the world requires hidden sparks of goodness.

Doing good should not be predicated on recognition or reward but instead on the needs of others, on the requirements of the world at large. That is the message of the Lamed Vavniks. They do good for one reason and one reason alone. The world needs it. Their recognition is insignificant. Their reward remains in God’s hands. The Torah teaches: “The secret things belong to the Lord our God.” (Deuteronomy 29)

The Hasidic rebbe, Menahem Mendle of Kotzk opines: “The world thinks that a tzaddik nistar—a hidden righteous person—is a person who conceals his (or her) righteousness and his (or her) good deeds from others. The truth, however, is that a tzaddik nistar is one whose righteousness is hidden and concealed from him (or herself), and who has no idea whatsoever that he (or she) is righteous.”

How different the world might be if good was so ordinary that even the doer remained unaware of its goodness.

How extraordinary the world might become if recognition and reward were not part of our motivation or calculus but instead doing righteous deeds.

Ancient Guidance for Today’s Challenges

President Trump has now been indicted four times, twice in federal court and twice in state courts. This unprecedented occurrence will occupy the news for some time. The divisions among Americans will grow. The controversies will simmer. And so, I am thinking not about these events but instead about the Torah’s words.

As soon as the Israelites enter the land, they are instructed to build an altar on which to give thanks. They are to acknowledge their history of wandering. “My father was a wandering Aramean.” (Deuteronomy 26) And then they are to give voice to the land’s bounty. “I now bring the first fruits of the soil which You, Adonai, have given me.”

The first task is to recall our history and then to give thanks. We acknowledge God’s beneficence.

The second is to build a reminder to the laws that will govern our lives.

We are instructed as follows: “As soon as you have crossed the Jordan into the land that Adonai your God is giving you, you shall set up large stones. Coat them with plaster and inscribe upon them all the words of this Torah.” (Deuteronomy 27)

I have difficulty imagining stones large enough to contain all the Torah’s words, but the intention seems clear. Don’t ever forget the laws. Let them be inscribed before your eyes. The Torah makes its philosophy crystal clear. It is these laws which enable you to live on the land.

Even the king is subject to these laws. When God acquiesces to the people’s demand for a king, God exacts one condition. The ruler must not only be bound by these laws but have these always before him. “When the king is seated on his royal throne, he shall have a copy of this Torah written for him... Let it remain with him and let him read in it all his life, so that he may learn to revere Adonai his God, to observe faithfully every word of this Torah as well as these laws.” (Deuteronomy 17)

Remember the laws. Everyone is beholden to the law.

Never forget your history. Recall you were once homeless wanderers. Now you are blessed to have a home.

Always give thanks. Everything begins with gratitude.

The words of Torah offer solace.

The Torah continues to offer guidance.

Look Away from the Bad

The Torah admonishes us to wipe out our enemies, most especially the Amalekites who attacked our ancestors, killing the Israelite children, weak and infirm. So despised were their actions that even the Amalekites’ memory is to be expunged from the annals of history. How one blots out their memory while remembering their infamy is a mystery, but the command remains clear. “You shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget!” (Deuteronomy 25)

And so, it comes as surprise that the Egyptians who enslaved us and embittered our ancestors’ lives and whose ruthlessness is the stuff of our Passover tale, are treated quite differently. The Torah commands: “You shall not abhor an Egyptian, for you were a stranger in that land.” (Deuteronomy 23)

The medieval commentators are likewise perplexed. Rashi (1040-1105) adds, “Even though they cast your children into the river!” And then he responds to his own bewilderment. Our years in Egypt ended with oppression and slavery. They began, however, hundreds of years earlier when Joseph and his brothers were rescued from famine. Rashi concludes: “They were your hosts in time of need. Although they sinned against you do not abhor them.”

Is this the Torah’s counsel? Remember the good and forget the bad?

During this season of repentance when we wish to turn our hearts toward others, when our most earnest prayer is to forgive and be forgiven, I am wondering if we heed this advice. Recall the good done in years past. Forgive the more recent slights—however numerable they may appear.

Moses Maimonides (1138-1204) adds: “If we find a person in trouble, whose assistance we once enjoyed, or from whom we once received some benefit, even if that person has subsequently done evil to us, we must bear in mind their previous good conduct.” (Guide of the Perplexed III:42)

Herein lies the Torah’s wisdom. If we are commanded to look past the wrongs done by the Egyptians, how much the more so those nearer to us and those who were perhaps once most dear to us?

Look past recent wrongs. Let grudges float away.

Hold on to the good once done for you—even if it seems like lifetimes ago.

Lean into Maimonides’ counsel: “The Torah has taught us how far we must extend this principle of favoring those who are near to us, and of treating kindly everyone with whom we have some relationship, even if they have offended or wronged us; even if they are very bad, we must have some consideration for them.”

Fill your heart with the good. Blot out the wrongs.

Measuring Our Legacy

Many are familiar with legend of Rip Van Winkle who sleeps through a generation of historic changes, falling asleep with the American colonies subject to English rule and waking to discover a free United States of America. Thousands of years earlier, the Talmud offers a similar story. It is the story of Honi, the Circle Maker. Here is his tale.

One day, Honi the Circle Maker, was walking along the road. He saw a man planting a carob tree. Honi said to him, “How many years does it take for a carob tree to bear fruit?” The man responded, “Seventy years.”

Honi then asked him, “How do you know if you will live another seventy years and taste the tree’s fruit?” The man said to him, “I found a world full of carob trees. Just as my ancestors planted for me, so I plant for my children.” Honi then sat down and ate a plentiful dinner.

As often happens after a big meal, drowsiness overcame him, and Honi fell asleep. Miraculously, a rock formation rose around him, and he became hidden. He slept for seventy years. When he awakened, he crawled from the rocks and went for a walk. He saw a man picking fruit from the carob tree.

Honi said to him, “Are you the one who planted this tree?” The man responded and said to him, “No. I am his grandson.” Honi was startled and exclaimed, “I must have slept for seventy years.” (Babylonian Talmud, Taanit 23a)

Today is the first day of the month of Elul. This day begins the forty-day period of introspection that culminates with the closing of Yom Kippur’s gates of repentance. During this time, we are instructed to look within and ask, “Who I have wronged? How might I do things differently?”

We are also urged to ponder, “What have I done for future generations?” How have my actions guaranteed our people’s future, the prospering of humanity and the earth’s very survival? What might we do so that our grandchildren might prosper?

The imagery of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur is clear. No one is innocent of wrongdoing. No one is perfectly righteous. Everyone can change. Everyone can correct their failings. The tradition further teaches We are rescued by our good deeds.

On the High Holidays, we are awakened from our slumber by the piercing sound of the shofar. On these days, we are intended to look ahead by looking back. How can we change? How can we do better?

What have we planted for future generations? What can we plant for others?

Do Your Own Laundry!

Parents often tell their young children, “One day you are going to have to do your own laundry and I will no longer do it for you.” Or “One day I am not going to pick you up at your friend’s house and you are going to have to get home on your own.” Or “One day you are going to have to learn how to cook for yourself (and then you can complain to yourself about dinner).”

Hidden in such statements is the notion that as children grow older, they need to gain more independence and assume even greater responsibility. Parents are not intended to keep doing things for them. Rather, our children are supposed to learn how to do more and more things for themselves.

Likewise, God instructs the Israelites: “You shall not act at all as we now act here, each of us as we please, because you have not yet come to the allotted haven that Adonai your God is giving you.” (Deuteronomy 12)

The wilderness experience in the Sinai desert is akin to childhood. The Israelites had to learn how to do things for themselves so that when they finally arrive in the Promised Land, they will be able to build a nation for themselves. And yet, the Bible is a record of the Israelites’ failure to live up to this promise. The people get to the land, but do not in a sense ever grow up. In fact, almost as soon as they arrive and achieve victory over the land’s inhabitants, they are defeated.

Read the Book of Judges as but one example. “Then the Israelites did what was offensive to God and God delivered them into the hands of the Midianites for seven years.” (Judges 6). And the parent retorts, “I told you I was not going to do that for you anymore. That is why you don’t have any clean underwear. You are going to have to do the laundry yourself!”

The question remains. How do we teach responsibility? Gaining a driver’s license is not the same as being a capable driver. Reading the owner’s manual (or watching the YouTube video) is not the same as doing the laundry yourself. Ordering from Door Dash is not the same as knowing how to cook.

Responsibility is taught bit by bit. So, start at a young age.

The parent offers, “Help me prepare dinner tonight. Wash the lettuce. Peel the carrots.” Help me do the laundry. “Separate the whites from the colors.”

Teaching independence and responsibility is a long, arduous, and perhaps never-ending, process. The Bible suggests this task is never completed. The lesson is never fully realized. Our sacred text is a record of the people learning, and forgetting, and then relearning responsibility.

We may arrive at the Promised Land, but we never fully learn how to do it all for ourselves. Then again, as soon as we learn how to do it ourselves, we often become blinded by our successes, and forget how to do things on our own.

Parents, take comfort in the Bible’s stories. Even God is an imperfect parent.

Gain strength from God’s example.

Keep at it. Bit by bit.

Never lose faith in the lesson’s importance.

Walk the Walk

We are familiar with the command to love God. We recite these words every time we gather for services. The Shema states: “You shall love Adonai your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might.”

The Torah also commands us to hold fast to God. (Deuteronomy 11) The mystics spin mountains of interpretation about this concept of devekut—literally clinging to God. They believe that we should grow so close to God that we become one with God. We should lose ourselves in the Almighty.

Look at the words of the popular prayer, Lecha Dodi, composed by the kabbalist Shlomo Halevi Alkebetz in sixteenth century Safed: “Enter in peace, O crown of your husband; enter in gladness, enter in joy. Come to the people that keeps its faith. Enter, O bride! Enter, O bride! (Bo-i challah! Bo-i challah!)”. Shabbat is the bride and Israel is her husband.

The imagery is clear. Our love for Shabbat is consummated as the sun sets on Friday evening. There is a mystical union. We cling to God.

And while I understand this concept and appreciate the tradition, I pause before this mysticism. Lose the self? Cling to God? It appears too ethereal and not of this world. It seems, and you will forgive me, too clingy. The Baal Shem Tov, the founder of the Hasidic movement, rescues the mysticism of his Kabbalistic forebears. He brings their mysticism down to earth and suggests a teaching that resonates.

The Baal Shem Tov asks: “Is it possible to cling to God? Is God not a consuming fire? As Torah writes elsewhere, ‘For the Lord your God, is a consuming fire.’” He answers his own question. “Rather, adhere to God’s attributes. Just as God is compassionate, so too, you should be compassionate etc.”

He notes that getting too close to God is dangerous. In fact, history is filled with examples of mystics whose zeal consume not only themselves but their followers. (Sabbatai Zvi!) Instead, the Baal Shem Tov teaches us to cling to God’s example. God visits Abraham when he is recovering from illness. Visit the sick. God buries Moses. Attend funerals. Make sure couples dance at their weddings.

When we dance, when we mourn, when we offer comfort, we cling to God’s attributes. Our actions become Godly. Our behavior can become Godly.

Imitate God. Follow God’s example.

The Torah makes this point clear. It urges us to walk in God’s ways. Spend time here, not up there. Devote yourselves to this earth and this moment.

Walk the walk.

The Zionist Dream Is Endangered

Today is the saddest day in the Jewish calendar. Tisha B’Av marks the destruction of the Temple. In 70 CE the Romans destroyed the Temple, leveled Jerusalem, and exiled our people from the land of Israel. Our hopes for a restoration of Jewish sovereignty became the stuff of messianic hopes, heartfelt prayers, and far off dreams.

That is until the nineteenth century when Zionists began arguing that we should no longer wait for a messiah but take matters into our own hands. We began to return to the land of Israel first in small numbers and then in great waves of immigration. And a mere seventy-five years ago, our dream was realized. The State of Israel was born. Our sovereignty restored.

This week is filled with sadness for the Jewish people. The Zionist dream is in peril. Our sovereignty corrupted. A Jewish and democratic State of Israel is in danger.

For months (29 weeks and counting!) countless Israelis have protested against the government’s proposal to overhaul the judicial system. The majority agree that the system is in need of reform, but they oppose the government’s proposals. The coalition’s recent vote to eliminate the “reasonableness” doctrine and its future proposals to exert even more control over the Supreme Court will erode Israel’s democratic character.

A democracy requires an independent judiciary. Absent a constitution, Israel’s judges serve as the only check against government officials’ power. This is why a majority of Israelis oppose Prime Minister Netanyahu’s judicial overhaul. In essence they trust the justices more than they have faith in Netanyahu and his coalition partners.

Rabbi Daniel Gordis notes, “The political crisis in Israel is no longer about being in favor of the judicial reform the Netanyahu government pledged to enact, or about opposing it. It is no longer about law; it is about the almost complete erosion of any trust millions of citizens have in the government.” (The Atlantic)

Too many in Netanyahu’s ruling coalition, most especially the ultra-Orthodox partners and the zealous settler radicals (what else should one call someone like Itamar Ben-Gvir who the Israeli army rejected because of his racist extremism?) care little for Israel’s founding democratic principles. Make no mistake, their actions are not about putting forward a slightly controversial bill, but instead about changing how Israel is governed. They think little about guaranteeing the rights of minorities.

Democracies are not so much about majority rule but instead about ensuring the rights of all citizens. They are about protecting dissenters with as much vigor as rulers. Listen to the words of Menachem Begin, the founder of Netanyahu’s own Likud party, “We have learned that an elected parliamentary majority can be an instrument in the hands of a group of rulers and act as camouflage for their tyranny.” (The Israel Democracy Institute)

This is why air force pilots have been heard saying they will not serve a dictatorship. The government’s actions threaten Israel’s security. Its security is built first and foremost on unity, most especially between the government’s leaders and the IDF’s commanders.

When the Temple was destroyed the rabbis turned inward. They did not blame the Romans as much as they castigated themselves for their own demise. They told a fanciful story about how the wrong person received a party invitation and showed up to the festivities only to discover that he was unwanted. The host had him forcibly removed. The other party goers, including the rabbis in attendance, stood by and did nothing. (Babylonian Talmud, Gittin 55b)

In his anger the unwanted guest went straight to the Roman authorities, spinning tales of how the Jews conspired against them. He set a trap for his fellow Jews to convince the Romans of the Jews’ disloyalty. The trap hinged on a matter of Jewish law. Unable to see beyond the strictures of their tradition, Jewish leaders chose to offend the authorities rather than compromise their halachah. The Romans became enraged when the offense was uncovered. And they did what Romans did.

Jerusalem was destroyed.

What was the name of the unwanted party goer? Bar Kamza. And the name of the friend who was supposed to get the invite? Kamza. The differences between a Kamza and Bar Kamza, between a friend and enemy are small indeed. The tale makes clear. There were so many opportunities for compromise. There were so many missed opportunities to avoid disaster.

This can be a moment for introspection and repair. The rabbis understood that we are one people. They taught that when we fight among ourselves, we leave the door open for our destruction. They believed that our tragedy was sown by sinat chinam, baseless hatred between Jews.

The enemy can be us.

“Pray for the peace of Jerusalem!” (Psalm 122)

The Longer the Journey, the Better the Blues

To travel from Mount Sinai to the edge of the Promised Land takes eleven days. (Deuteronomy 1)

Why did the Israelites take nearly 40 years? Because they doubted God. If they had faith, their journey from slavery to freedom, from subjugation by Pharaoh to ruling their own lives, would have been a brief trip.

Instead, it was a lengthy journey filled with struggle and loss. No one who left Egypt entered the land of Israel, save Joshua and Caleb.

It is not the direct path that writes history. It is the unplanned, and circuitous routes that provide us with the stories, and turns, and meaning that comprise our Torah.

Rebecca Solnit writes in her beautiful book, A Field Guide to Getting Lost:

People look into the future and expect that the forces of the present will unfold in a coherent and predictable way, but any examination of the past reveals that circuitous routes of change are unimaginably strange…. The music called the blues is as good an example as any of the unlikely, the evolution of African music in the southeastern American landscape, inflected by slavery and exposure to the English language, European instruments and perhaps Scottish, and English ballads—the passionate melancholy of murder ballads and songs about abandoned maidens and bloody revenges.

Had the journey only taken eleven days, had the Israelites not spent so much time losing faith and getting lost, there would be no Torah.

Willie Dixon adds, and as Howlin’ Wolf made famous:

It could be a spoonful of diamond
It could be a spoonful of gold
Just a little spoon of your precious love
Satisfy my soul

From every struggle comes some great Torah—and some wonderful music.

It Starts with Our Leaders

“Moses spoke to the heads of the Israelite tribes.” (Numbers 30)

This is an unusual formulation. In most instances the Torah states, “Moses spoke to the people.” (Numbers 31) Why does Moses speak to the tribal heads rather than the people?

Perhaps the answer can be discerned in this portion’s details about making vows. The Hatam Sofer, a leading rabbi in nineteenth century Germany, asks this very same question. He suggests the law is directed to leaders because people in public office are often tempted to make promises that they cannot keep. It is as if to say, “Be on guard of the words and promises you make—most especially if you are a leader.”

In a few weeks we will mark Tisha B’Av, the day in which we commemorate the destruction of Jerusalem’s Temple. Until the modern period and its Holocaust, this fast day marked the Jewish people’s greatest tragedy. The loss of the Temple, the destruction of Jerusalem and the slaughter of so many Jews is still remembered at Jewish weddings by the breaking of the glass.

The rabbis asked why this tragedy happened to us. It was of course the Romans, and prior to that the Babylonians, who destroyed the first and second Temples. Still the rabbis engaged in wrenching introspection to uncover how the Jewish people might be at fault for their own demise. They suggest that it was because of baseless hatred of one Jew for another. The seeds of our destruction were sown by how we screamed and yelled at each other.

The rabbis believed in argument and especially passionate debate. They taught that truth can only emerge when we openly argue and debate with one another. We read: “Any debate that is for the sake of heaven, its end will continue; but that which is not for the sake of heaven, its end will not continue. What is a debate for the sake of heaven? The debate between Rabbis Hillel and Shammai. And a debate that is not for the sake of heaven? The debate of Korah and his entire band of rebels.” (Avot 5)

There is a fine line between a positive and negative argument. It rests in how we approach those with whom we disagree. The rabbis offer us an important insight. While we might be strengthened by debate, we are weakened by tribal divisions. When we debate, we must ask, are we arguing so that truth might emerge? Or are we arguing instead to draw divisions between us?

This is why Moses speaks to the tribal heads.

Our nation is a confederation of different tribes and disparate identities. Our destruction is sown when we see our own tribal identity as the whole.

Our very survival depends on how our leaders argue and debate. It rests on how leaders speak to one another. It is secured in seeing beyond a single tribe.

Yearning to Breathe Free

I am thinking about Emma Lazarus. She is the American Jewish poet whose words are etched on the Statue of Liberty. “Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.” Her words remain a powerful statement of American’s promise.

Emma Lazarus was raised in privilege. She descended from America’s first Jewish settlers and belonged to New York’s fabled Spanish and Portuguese Synagogue. Her father owned sugar refineries and was among this country’s early Sephardic elite. He counted among his friends the Vanderbilts and Astors. She learned with private tutors and studied German and French so that she could better assimilate into cultured society.

The rise of antisemitism in the 1880’s convinced her that she needed to do more. She ventured away from her society friends and worked with Russian refugees fleeing pogroms. She volunteered with the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society. She struggled with how her circumstances differed so dramatically from others’ experiences, most especially her fellow Jews.

She believed that America’s foundation is built on welcome.

We are a nation of immigrants.140 years ago Emma Lazarus penned “The New Colossus” reaffirming our our country’s founding principles.

This week we celebrated July 4th. 247 years ago our nation’s founders signed the Declaration of Independence. “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

And yet these rights are not as self-evident as our founders proclaimed. The Declaration’s signers only imagined these rights for men, and not women, for Whites, and not enslaved Blacks.

If we wish these rights to become evident for all then every generation must take up the struggle again, and again, and again. They must renew the declaration’s promise. They must recommit to making these rights more apparent and even more clear.

There are those who wish to march our nation backward rather than forward. There are those who wish to obscure the promise hidden between the Declaration of Independence’s lines.

This week our portion is named for a man who wishes to pull the Israelites backward. Pinchas is a zealot who killed his fellow Jews because they strayed from his exacting vision. The portion’s import, however, is found later. It is discovered in five women: Mahlon, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah and Tirzah. They are the daughters of Zelophahad who argue that their inheritance should be equal to a man’s.

They declare, “Give us a holding among our father’s kinsmen!” (Numbers 27)

It is not zealotry that wins the day but reason and logic. The zealot wishes to turn the clock back. The thinker looks forward. She uses reason. Where others see only white spaces between the lines, she sees opportunity for the promise to become even more fulfilled.

It may not have been imagined in their own day, but it is there. Emma Lazarus saw it. We must do so as well. She understood that our nation’s promise is not about about holding on to privilege. It is instead found in welcome.

What made Emma Lazarus walk from her storied Union Square apartment to the teeming slums of Ward’s Island? We will never know what caused her to see America’s hope not in her family’s success but instead in those immigrants’ misery. We can know this.

It began with leaving her apartment.

Let all breathe free!

A Leader’s Empathy

This week it is Moses’ turn. His frustration reaches a boiling point. The people are complaining again. This time it is about the lack of water. God offers a miracle and instructs Moses to stand before the people and command the rock to bring forth water. Instead, Moses hits the rock and shouts, “Listen, you rebels, shall we get water for you out of this rock?” (Numbers 20)

Because of this Moses is punished. He will now not be allowed to enter the promised land. He will only take the people to the edge of the land. It will be up to Joshua to lead them across the border. There is great debate among Jewish commentators about Moses’ sin. They argue about what he did to deserve such a punishment.

Some suggest it was because he hit the rock. Others say it was because he did not listen to God’s command. A few believe it was because he castigated the people and distanced himself from them when calling them rebels. The Torah remains indecisive. It is clear that Moses will not lead the people into the land. The why remains a mystery.

And that mystery leads me to wonder. Perhaps Moses’ actions were not about anger but instead about guilt. Korah and his band of rebels were Levites. They were from Moses’ tribe and in essence were family. And now they are dead. Does Moses feel guilty that his leadership has cost people their lives? Is he distraught that the promises he made to the Israelites will not come to pass? Is he frustrated with the God who chose him?

Of course, he can blame the Israelites who are deserving of blame. They never stop complaining! They lose faith in God. They question Moses at what must seem like every turn. But Moses is no ordinary leader. He is a prophet and not the typical person.

Their failures become his own. Moses blames himself. He is overcome by guilt. He is filled with empathy for the people he leads. It is as if he says to God, “If they cannot go into the land, then I do not deserve to go into the land as well. Let their fate be mine.”

Janus Korczak was a well-known physician and educator living in Poland when Nazi Germany invaded. Eventually he, and his colleague, Stefa Wilczyńska, were forced to move their children’s school to the Warsaw Ghetto. Before the ghetto was liquidated, friends offered to help save Janus and Stefa, but they and their staff decided to stay with the children and not save themselves. They and the children were murdered at Treblinka in the summer of 1942.

The children’s fate became the teachers’ destiny.

The leader, and most especially the prophet, shares, and feels, the pain of the people. Moses hits the rock because he is so aggrieved about his people’s pain. (This is the is the same man who years earlier killed a taskmaster when he was beating an Israelite slave.) He is once again pained by their sufferings. His heart is overwhelmed by their lamentations.

His sin is not an act of anger. It is not even a sin. It is instead an expression of pain.

Empathy for others overwhelms him.

Janus Korczak teaches: “I exist not to be loved and admired, but to love and act. It is not the duty of those around me to love me. Rather, it is my duty to be concerned about the world, about man.”

Empathy for others is all consuming.

The people’s fate becomes the leader’s destiny.

Look to Future for Hope

This week the Israelites’ complaining reaches a crescendo. A rebellion ensues. Korah and his followers question Moses’ leadership. God sides with Moses and kills the rebels.

On the one hand, I am sympathetic to Korah’s complaints and even his critiques of Moses. He shouts: “You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord’s congregation?” (Numbers 16) Korah suggests that Moses is no longer as humble as a leader should be. Humility is a necessary quality for effective leadership.

Korah’s frustration is understandable. Last week we learned that his generation will not enter the promised land. Because the people believed the scouts’ negative reports, they are destined to die in the wilderness. Imagine the rebels’ distress. Moses urged them to leave Egypt with the assurance that soon after their rescue from slavery they would be able to build new lives in their own land, the land of Israel.

And now that promise is no more. Their lot is going to be years of wandering. Their lives will be marked by struggle.

Their children will taste the promised land. They will only know the struggles freedom entails.

On the other hand, the rebels’ complaints go too far. Not only do they lose faith in God, and trust in Moses’ leadership, they appear to view Egypt as the promised land. They say, “Is it not enough that you brought us from a land flowing with milk and honey to have us die in the wilderness, that you would also lord it over us?” Their statements are divorced from fact. Egypt was not a land of bounty, but instead one of servitude and oppression.

Here is where we discover the rebels’ sin. And, we begin to understand why God’s punishment was so harsh. They saw Egypt, and not Israel, as a land flowing with milk and honey. The rebels mythologize the past. They come to believe that even a tortuous past filled with slavery is better than the promise, and hope, of a better future for their children.

When we mythologize the past, we obscure the future’s promise. Too often we say things like, “Kids today don’t…. When I was young, we knew how to…” When we utter such words, we forget that progress goes hand in hand with change. And change can be unnerving.

Of course, there are problems today. Of course, some of today’s challenges appear solvable when looking back in the rearview mirror. When we hold on to the past too tightly, we forget the problems of yesterday. The 1950’s, for example, did not face the challenges of social media, or the worries about climate change, but they also did not benefit from the welcome successes of women’s rights or enjoy the advancements the computer age has offers.

We can, and should, look to the past for wisdom, but not for hope. Why? Because we cannot go back in time. Instead, we must look to the future with hope. It is in the promise of a better tomorrow for which we must fasten our dreams.

The rabbis suggest we will be asked several questions when we approach heaven. Among these is the question, “Did you have hope in the future?” (Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 31a)

Sure, it is easier to look back. Nostalgia is a powerful drug. But the future is the only direction we can travel. It is all that stands before us. And hope is the only thing that will steer us right.

Look back for wisdom. Look forward for hope.

Take Less Selfies!

A few years ago, Susie and I visited Mystic Seaport. It was not a planned getaway. We had spent a few days with family in Provincetown and had arrived several hours early for our return ferry to Orient Point. We walked through town and made our way to the 100-year-old Mystic River Bascule Bridge. There, I struggled to take a selfie of Susie and me. After several attempts of trying to make my arm longer, a twenty-something year old walked over and asked, “Would you like me to take a picture of the two of you?” “Yes, please,” we said in unison.

We are not of the selfie generation. We are far more comfortable turning the camera outward. Does this make us old? Yes, absolutely. Does this make us wise? Perhaps.

In my seventh-grade class, I give students the opening minutes to hang out, enjoy each other’s company, and eat pizza. In those first few moments I discover what is going on in their lives. They share what they are doing in school and what after school activities they are involved in. They often talk about what they are excited about and in addition, what they are worried about.

They also often spend time on their iPhones. (Once the lesson begins their phones must be placed on another table.) They play games and take pictures of themselves. They examine the pictures to determine which is the most flattering. They ask their friends to weigh in. “Do I look better in this picture or that one?” One time, I somewhat innocently asked, “Is there ever a day when you don’t take a picture of yourself?” The students looked at me incredulously. “No, rabbi!”

I found their candid admission revelatory. How does the world look if it is filled with so many pictures of ourselves? What effect do all these selfies have on our children? What happens to self-esteem when people worry too much about how they appear to others?

In the Torah we discover a similar dilemma. Moses sends twelve scouts to reconnoiter the land before the Israelites are set to march across the border. Joshua and Caleb return with positive reports. The remaining ten suggest that the land is filled with giants and that there is no way the people will succeed in conquering the land of Canaan. They conclude, “And we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them.” (Numbers 13)

How could they possibly now how they appeared to the Canaanites? They could not. And yet their worry with how they look, their obsession with how they appear to others, distracts them from their God given mission. The Hasidic rabbi, Menahem Mendl of Kotzk, imagines God asking, “Why are you so concerned about how you look in the eyes of the Canaanites, to the point that it distracts you from your sacred task?”

When we turn inward too much, we lose sight of not only what is happening around us but the needs of those around us. Our sacred task is to better our world, to ease the pain of those closest to us as well as lift them even higher when they rejoice. (You cannot hoist yourself in a chair for the hora!). If we worry about how we appear to others, we forget about the needs of others.

From where can we draw strength?

The Psalmist teaches: “I turn my eyes to the mountains;/ from where will my help come?/ My help comes from the Lord,/ maker of heaven and earth.” (Psalm 121)

Turn the camera outward. Look to the world for inspiration. And there find God’s light.

My favorite photographer is Neil Folberg. I discovered his work years ago when I wandered into his studio. His black and white photographs appear to shine with color. I admire how light dances among the trees.

I wonder if the solution is simple and staring back at us. Use the selfie button less.

A stranger offered help. And she captured the best picture.

It is the response of others and the response to others that makes our world whole.

Manna and Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory

I own many cookbooks but rarely look to them for guidance. More often than not I prefer to garner recipe hints from the internet. Perhaps it is because they are not as frequently adorned with beautiful pictures that are impossible to emulate. The imagination of the meal rarely lives up to the reality.

And when it comes to food our imaginations do not always live up to our expectations. What we want to eat is not always what we can have.

I have been wondering as perhaps only a rabbi might why the Israelites complain so much about food. God provides them with manna. Our tradition suggests that this God-given sustenance tasted like whatever someone wanted it to taste like. “It tasted like rich cream.” (Numbers 11) the Torah offers. What more could they want? God gives them ice cream at every meal. And yet they cry, “If only we had meat to eat!”

How can this be? They never even tasted meat. The Israelites testify against themselves. “We remember the fish that we used to eat free in Egypt, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic.” How can they crave something they never even tasted? Are they imagining the meals they were forced to serve to their Egyptian taskmasters? Did they think freedom is synonymous with luxury? “We want what they have!”

I find myself singing, “There is no life I know/ To compare with pure imagination/ Living there, you'll be free/ If you truly wish to be.” In Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (and I mean the version with Gene Wilder not the one with Johnny Depp), we learn many things. Everyone is overcome by desire. (Charlie’s lapse is rescued by his honesty.)

God responds to the Israelites’ complaints by providing them with a month’s supply of quail. And like Violet who blows up like a giant blueberry, they eat so much they become sick. Some commentators suggest that they were so overcome with “gluttonous craving” that they did not even bother to cook the meat and ate it immediately after slaughtering the birds. Their desires overwhelm their bellies.

Sometimes we imagine ourselves to be starving when we are not. Who among us has known true hunger or starvation? Still, we persist in describing ourselves as famished. “I am so hungry I could eat a horse!” Or more simply, “I am starving.” Even though I have said the latter on many occasions, such phrases are an insult to those who have experienced hunger and starvation. Our imaginations overwhelm our appetites.

And yet imagination is the secret ingredient to every meal. It is where the meal begins for the cook. “What will dinner look like? Could this lunch be great?” Imagination is where the meal finds its union with taste. Does it evoke remembrances? “It is almost like my grandmother’s.” Or does the meal open up new possibilities? “I did not think asparagus could taste so good.”

Jose Andres writes: Food is not just fuel! Food is history, culture, politics, art. It is nourishment for the soul. The simple fact of life is that we will be eating two or three meals a day every day until we die. We should all be experts at eating.” (Vegetables Unleashed: A Cookbook)

The Torah imagines God provides our food. “The people would go about and gather it, grind it between millstones or pound it in a mortar, boil it in a pot, and make it into cakes.” It also hints that more rests in our own hands than we originally thought. The people had to work to transform the manna. Its taste is unleashed by their preparations. Manna provides not only sustenance but rich taste. Who does not like rich cream? Manna is like Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.

Is the meal miraculously transformed? Or is it instead our hands that transform it?

Too often we think the secret of every meal is desire. “I want steak!” Instead, the secret is imagination. Do we believe we are content? Do we have faith we are sated?

Can we imagine a meal that is manna worthy?

Can we work to create nourishment for the soul as well as the body?

Let’s Bless Like Tevye

In Fiddler on the Roof, Tevye blesses his daughters with the familiar words:

May the Lord protect and defend you.
Favor them, oh Lord, with happiness and peace.
Oh, hear our Sabbath prayer. Amen.

The 1964 Broadway show, written by Jerry Bock and Sheldon Harnick, is based on the Yiddish writer Sholom Aleichem’s story, Tevye the Dairyman, published in 1894. Songs such as “If I Were a Rich Man” and “Tradition” belie the more melancholy tone of Aleichem’s original story. Although in both our hero’s shtetl is destroyed, there are crucial differences. In particular, in the Broadway musical the family heads to Amerika; in the original story, the family makes plans to journey to the land of Israel.

The show’s conclusion affirms American Jews’ faith in their adopted land. Sholom Aleichem’s story ends with more questions than answers. The village is destroyed. Our exile persists. The State of Israel’s creation is then only a distant hope. Antisemitism and persecution remain regular features of our existence.

Too often such differences remain hidden. And yet the choices they represent begin to take form. Do we wish to keep on singing and dancing as Tevye does on stage? Do we wish to have our commitments affirmed? Or do wish to turn through the pages of the book? Do we wish to leave with new challenges placed before us?

Tevye’s blessing is based on the priestly benediction found in this week’s Torah portion:

Lord, bless you and protect you!
Lord, deal kindly and graciously to you!
Lord, bestow favor upon you and grant you peace! (Numbers 6)

Again, our association with these words is different than how the tradition has ritualized them. We believe that the priestly blessing is something that the rabbi recites. And it remains my greatest privilege to bless bnai mitzvah students with these words, as well as newborn babies and wedding couples, especially those who I have known since their earliest days. (Mazel tov!)

The tradition, however, urges parents to recite these words. They are to offer this blessing to their children (and even grandchildren) on Shabbat and holidays. Every week, parents place their hands on their children’s heads and recite these ancient words. It is a ritualized way of saying, “I love you.”

And while Tevye could not control his fate, or his children’s decisions for that matter, and while we are not likewise masters of our own destinies, or of our children’s paths as well, we do hold the power of blessing in our own hands.

Don’t rely so much on me. Instead rely on yourselves.

We can always add more blessing to our lives. We can always bless those we love.

Read a Book, Read the Book—Be Challenged

Moses Maimonides died in 1204 and was buried in Fustat, Egypt. Later he was reinterred in Tiberias, Israel. He is considered the greatest Jewish scholar who ever lived. People continue to visit his grave and pay homage to his influence and scholarship.

Two of his works are often cited. His fourteen-volume compendium of Jewish law, Mishneh Torah, and his philosophical treatise, The Guide of the Perplexed, continue to hold sway over Jewish thought.  He is so influential that Abraham Joshua Heschel once remarked, “If one did not know that Maimonides was the name of a man, one would assume it was the name of a university.” Like many of my colleagues, I continue to turn to his writings for guidance.

It therefore might come as a surprise to learn that in the last years of his life, and following his death, his thinking and writing, were steeped in controversy. Fellow scholars found his suggestion that the Mishneh Torah was so comprehensive that it would render the rabbinic profession obsolete and threaten their livelihood. He argued that rabbis should not make their living as rabbis but should instead earn money through other vocations. Maimonides was a physician. Teaching Torah should only be done out of love for Torah.

Even more controversial was his attempt to synthesize traditional views with philosophical teachings. How do we reconcile tradition with contemporary ideas was Maimonides’ overarching question. He was enamored of Greek thought, and in particular the writings of Aristotle. Maimonides’ contemporaries leaned on ancient Greek philosophy. He discovered Aristotle from Muslim philosophers. When The Guide of the Perplexed was translated from Arabic to Hebrew, many traditional rabbis were aghast. In 1232 the leading rabbis of France issued a ban on The Guide, as well as the philosophical introduction to the Mishneh Torah.

In that same year Catholic leaders took up the cause of this anti-Maimonidean camp and burned his books. The traditionalists soon realized that their arguments had gone too far. The objections dissipated. The disagreements by and large died down. Over the centuries a compromise took hold. Study the tradition first. After sufficient mastery of these subjects, one can then dwell on philosophical writings. The banning of Maimonides’ writings was not attempted again.

The struggle continues. How do we reconcile contemporary thinking with traditional teachings?

This evening begins Shavuot, the holiday that marks the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai. 

There are many passages in this holy Torah that I find unsettling. God condones violence. There are others I find objectionable. God forbids homosexual relations. There are more than a few that have stirred my soul since the day I first discovered them. God commands, “Love the stranger.” If I were to judge the Torah by the verses with which I disagree, I might urge banning it. I might suggest that no young b’nai mitzvah students should ever read its words or ponder its implications.

On this Shavuot I recommit myself to the study of Torah. I find inspiration in its challenges.  

In doing so, I also recommit to reading books and pondering their meaning. 

The point, of reading, and studying, and learning is to be challenged.

And so now, it’s off to the bookstore. I need to purchase Toni Morrison’s Beloved and Jonathan Safran Foer’s Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close.  I need to add them to my reading list.

Every word offers a challenge and an inspiration, every sentence the opportunity for renewed obligation.

Be as Open as the Wilderness

“The Lord spoke to Moses in the wilderness of Sinai.” (Numbers 1)

Why did God speak in the wilderness? Why did God choose such a barren place to reveal the Torah?

It is because the wilderness belongs to no one. And wisdom can be claimed by everyone. It is because this barren place is open to all. And knowledge can be found by anyone.

The rabbis add: “Anyone who does not make oneself open to all like a wilderness cannot acquire wisdom and Torah.” (Bamidbar Rabbah 1)

What does it mean to be open to all?

It means that we must remain open to learning from each and every person. If we only learn from one source, then we cannot become wise. If we only read Jewish texts, but do not study secular literature, we do not truly learn. If we only delve into the sciences but do not pore over history’s texts, then we do not become well rounded thinkers. If we, to put it into contemporary language, only watch Fox News or conversely only read The New York Times, we cannot discern the contours of the arguments that animate present society.

It also means that we must foster an openness to others. There are those with whom we love to spend time and others we do not. There are those with whom we disagree and those with whom we agree (most of the time). Are we open to all?

There are those who are Americans and others who are not. There are those who are citizens and others who are migrants. There are those who are Jewish and others who are Christians or Muslims, Hindus or Buddhists, Sikhs or atheists. Are we truly open to each and every person?

Years ago, in the Spring of 1987 to be exact, I traveled to the Sinai. I marveled at its vastness. I was awed by its expansiveness. It was harsh yet beautiful, stark yet majestic. Our Bedouin guide led us through wadis and over mountains. We struggled to keep pace with his even steps. I wondered how his pace never changed. It was consistent despite the terrain. I attempted to mirror his cadence. I discovered a camaraderie in our footsteps.

There was learning to be discerned in this wilderness.

Do we remain open to others, to people who are different than ourselves, who believe not as we do? Do we remain open to ideas other than those beliefs we hold in our own hearts?

How can we be as open and expansive as the wilderness? How can we remain receptive to the Torah that continues to be revealed in such a wide, expansive place?